


When the Light Shines Through

by Brate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 10:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brate/pseuds/Brate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is injured and Sherlock is on the warpath. But not all is as it seems, and someone else close to him may suffer for his single-mindedness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Light Shines Through

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Проливая свет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303511) by [faikit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikit/pseuds/faikit)



> This story wouldn't exist if it weren't for Penfold. She was there every step of the way, egging me on and pushing me harder. The end result is completely and utterly her fault.

John Watson was too busy trying to ensure Mycroft kept the majority of his blood in his body to deal with one of Sherlock's rants. He knew it was happening out of fear and helplessness, but that didn't make it any easier to ignore. After Sherlock paced another circuit around him, John decided giving him a task would be the best method of distraction. "Can you go boil some water for me, please?"

Sherlock snorted. "At the moment, Mycroft is neither with child nor in need of tea."

"Yes, but if help doesn't get here in time, I may have to go in and collect the bullet. In which case, I'll have to sterilize my scalpel."

Sherlock paused mid-step. "Ah. I'll find something suitable to heat water in." He twirled and marched toward the kitchen.

John sighed.

"Well played," Mycroft whispered.

John looked down at his patient. "Nice to have you back."

"I didn't realize I'd left." Mycroft groaned as John applied more pressure to the wound. "W-what happened?"

"You were shot," John said. "And help is on the way." He neglected to report that Sherlock had called Lestrade personally, which would tell Mycroft far too much about how worried his brother was. Not that he wouldn't work it out himself. 

"I see." Mycroft frowned. "That's unusual."

John chuckled dryly. "I should hope so."

"Not normally a target," Mycroft offered breathlessly.

John added another bundle of gauze over the wound, cursing the traffic or whatever had caused the ambulance's delay.

"That's true," Sherlock said, stepping back into the room. "Generally, it's my brother's job to order the bullets, not suffer them. The ambulance should be here in three-point-seven minutes. Oh, and the water is working its way to a boil," he reported as an afterthought. 

"How you do go on," Mycroft said. "Dr. Watson, I'm afraid my brother has an exaggerated view of my importance." 

John huffed a breath as he applied pressure. "Try telling that to someone not covered in your blood."

Pounding footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Sherlock stepped back, allowing the medics access to their patient. He corralled Lestrade, who had followed them in, and started pointing out the areas that should be examined. 

John quickly relayed the pertinent information to the medical personnel, and released Mycroft into their care. The doctor in him clashed with the ex-soldier: one wanted to go with the ambulance, help if he could, but the other knew he would just be in the way. So he backed off and ducked into the bathroom to wash his hands. And, after a glance in the mirror, went and changed into a fresh shirt.

By the time he returned to the living room, the medical team and their patient had gone, and the CSEs were taking pictures of the flat, forensic samples, and measurements of the bullet's trajectory through the window. Sherlock was situated on the sidelines, staring blankly at the crime scene techs, and letting them do their job without comment. _Bloody hell._

John walked over to stand beside Sherlock. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything." Sherlock continued to stare.

"Exactly. That's what has me worried."

Sherlock raised a brow. "I am merely allowing the police to feel like they are doing something useful."

"Okay." John folded his arms across his chest. He waited about ten seconds. "Right, then. Are you ready to go and actually find whoever shot Mycroft?"

One side of Sherlock's mouth went up slightly in a dangerous smirk. "Absolutely." He took his coat off the rack by the door and was gone in a flourish of wool.

John grabbed his jacket and ran after, shooting a quick goodbye to Lestrade. He caught up with Sherlock across the street from their flat.

"Don't dawdle, John. We have a lot of ground to cover."

"And we're starting here?" John followed Sherlock into the building's lobby.

"Naturally. The shooter was poised in the second floor window on the end." And without another word, Sherlock was off and running up the stairs of the building. Something told John he wouldn't be getting the standard insight and explanations until this was over.

He followed Sherlock up the three flights and stood by as he knocked on the door of the flat. Another louder knock yielded no answer. Sherlock huffed a breath and reached into his pocket. He flipped open a billfold-sized packet to reveal a set of lock picks. 

"Sherlock," John hissed, "what are you doing?"

"Obviously, I am breaking into this flat."

"I can see that. It's illegal."

"Don't be tedious. The Yard will be here shortly and no doubt do the same." He swung the door open. "Coming?"

John looked both ways down the hall. He let his head drop and sighed. "Yes. Of course." As if he would let Sherlock do this on his own.

Shutting the door behind him, John leaned against it. Sherlock roamed about the flat, taking in the details in an instant. From this vantage point, John didn't see anything remarkable about the place. In fact, it looked hardly lived in.

"The flat is unoccupied at the moment," Sherlock said, as if responding to John's thoughts. "It's most likely rented out furnished." 

"So none of the stuff here belongs to the shooter," John surmised.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock was standing next to the far window. He opened the glass and leaned out, bending over precariously. John moved to run over to grab him, but Sherlock pulled himself in before he could do more than push off the door. 

"Sherlock!" John shouted, hurrying across the room.

Sherlock held up an object and raised an eyebrow. 

It was so small John couldn't tell what it was. "What is it?"

"It's the clue that is going to lead me straight to the person who pulled the trigger." Sherlock grimly wrapped his find in a handkerchief and pocketed it. He walked past John and out the door, throwing over his shoulder, "You should probably lock the door behind you. The police get so territorial when they know I've got there first."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!" John engaged the lock—and wiped off his prints—before he closed the door. He ran down the stairs to find Sherlock impatiently waiting in a taxi.

"Come on, John. We're losing the advantage."

John thought himself very noble that he didn't punch his friend in the nose.

****

The taxi sped toward East London, Sherlock staring straight ahead. John was curious to know what the detective had found, but was hesitant to ask. Sherlock didn't seem to be in the _marvel at the cleverness of me_ mood. John sat back and turned to face the window, watching the city go by in a blur. After several minutes, the car stopped, and Sherlock jumped out. 

John paid the fare and followed. "The fish market?"

"I need to confirm something," Sherlock said as he strode through the entranceway. He threaded his way through the stations, his head moving from side to side as he scanned the area, his customary delight in the hunt absent. 

John stuck close to his friend's side.

Stopping next to an unremarkable stall, Sherlock brushed past the other customers without a word. Leaning over the counter, he asked the fishmonger, "Is fresh cod in season?"

The fish seller whipped around, nearly dropping what he'd been wrapping up. "Mr. Holmes!" He tried smiling, but it came across as shaky at best. 

"Davis."

"What's this about, then?"

"You know very well what it's about. My only question is whether or not you sent him."

Most of the customers in line had left, as if sensing the tension, but the lady in front huffed angrily. "Will you please finish wrapping my order? I need to get home."

"Madam," Sherlock said, "it doesn't matter how quickly you make the dinner, your marriage is over."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, appalled. 

Sherlock looked at John as if he didn't know exactly what he'd just done.

"Not relevant. And not good," John said under his breath. 

"It's not my fault her husband would rather have sex with his accountant."

The woman flailed and burst into tears before running away.

John watched her go and then turned to Sherlock with a stern look. "You and I are going to have a long talk about appropriate behavior."

"Yes, yes, later." Sherlock flapped a hand at him. "Stop!" he called to Davis, who'd been trying to sneak away in the commotion. "I'm not finished with you."

Davis flinched. "I swear I haven't sent Lenny on any jobs for at least a month."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, studying the nervous man, his eyes sweeping from tip to toe, and narrowing on the man's chapped hands. "If I find out differently, I will be back."

The man paled. "I swear, Mr. Holmes. I swear on my mother's life."

"And if I didn't know you'd had her killed for the insurance payout, that might mean something." Sherlock gave him one last scowl and then walked toward the rear of the market. He marched through a set of doors clearly marked "For Employees Only." 

John didn't even pause as he trailed after. A few more turns, and the two were in the loading zone. 

Sherlock used a box to boost himself up and twisted around in a circle. On the second rotation, he abruptly stopped and jumped down. "This way!" he commanded, racing away.

From behind, John saw Sherlock heading directly toward a dark-haired man packing sea bass in the far corner. As they got closer, the man glanced up and saw them—saw Sherlock—and took off running. They chased after him, dodging boxes and people alike. Their quarry ran through the back alley and straight into traffic. Without a pause, Sherlock followed, just avoiding getting hit. 

John wasn't so fortunate. He tried to dash between two cars and got clipped by a taxi. He spun with the impact and fell back onto the sidewalk pavement, stunned. Breathing hard, John sat for a moment, gauging his injuries. Deciding he was merely bruised, he slowly gained his feet and scanned the street for Sherlock. 

The detective was walking toward him, lips pressed thin, clearly frustrated.

"No luck?" John asked when he was close enough.

"Unfortunately, between Lenny's head start and his knowledge of the area, I lost sight of him in the coming darkness." Sherlock's fists clenched. "Damn it!" He looked around the street then over at John. "What happened to you?"

"I just had a run-in with a taxi."

Sherlock eyed him more closely. "Are you all right?"

"Nothing a good long soak and some paracetamol won't cure."

Sherlock's frown didn't lessen. "Perhaps you should get checked at hospital."

"No, I'm fine." John shook his head, then paused, reconsidering. Mycroft was there, and Sherlock could probably use an excuse to check on his welfare. "Actually," John said, "I would feel better with a second opinion."

Sherlock's brows lowered, and he immediately went to the curb and hailed a taxi. 

The detective drummed his fingers impatiently at each red light and covertly checked his mobile screen every few minutes. John sighed, trying to think of something reassuring to say when Sherlock finally received a text. John felt no shame in reading it over his shoulder. _Mycroft out of danger. Full recovery expected._ There was no callback number, so John presumed Anthea had sent it. 

Beside him, John felt Sherlock relax fractionally. The tight stiffness he'd held since the shot had been fired yielded, and he leaned back into the seat. 

The drumming fingers stopped. "Perhaps you're right, John. I'm sure your self-diagnosis is correct, and we should return to the flat and draw you a bath."

John rolled his eyes. Typical. "It might be nice to check on Mycroft as long as we're almost there," he offered.

"I very much doubt he'd appreciate it."

"I don't know about that."

Sherlock smiled humorlessly. "You don't know my brother very well, do you?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," John retorted. "Perhaps a friendly face…" He glanced sideways. "…a _familiar_ face," John corrected, "might boost his spirits."

"The only thing that could 'boost his spirits' would be facilitating the restoration of the Empire." Sherlock gave a longsuffering sigh. "But I shall accompany you to hospital." 

Once they reached their destination, John was ushered to an examination room. Apparently, Sherlock's disinterest did not extend to forgetting to railroad him into being seen by another physician. While John submitted to the poking and prodding, Sherlock wandered off, presumably to find his brother.

After what seemed like forever, but was no doubt John merely being impatient, the attending physician returned, agreeing with John's initial diagnosis: a series of deep contusions, but nothing was broken. He thanked the doctor and went to reception to ask after Mycroft. He got off the lift on 3 and headed left. He was met at the end of the hall by two burly men in dark suits. One stepped forward, a hand inches from John's chest to stop him. 

"I'm sorry, sir. No one's allowed past this point."

"Oh," John said, "I'm here to see Mr. Holmes."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that."

"But I—"

"Sir. Please leave before I am forced to make you."

The last thing John wanted to do was cause the hospital trouble, so he gave up trying to explain and took a step back, intending to head to the waiting area.

"Hold on!"

John turned and saw Lestrade jogging down the hall behind the guards. He pointed at John. "He's with me."

The suited man frowned, then looked past Lestrade; John followed his gaze. Anthea was standing in front of a door. She looked up, saw John, and nodded.

"Carry on, sir," the guard said, moving aside to let John by.

John joined Lestrade, and they slowly walked down the hall. "Why do I get the feeling I owe my life to her?" he asked, only half-joking.

"Because you are a learned man. The only reason I made the cut is Sherlock."

"Speaking of…" John glanced around.

"Oh, he's long gone, mate."

"What? When?" John asked. 

Lestrade shrugged. "Came in about half-hour ago, got me through the terrible twins, spoke to the Blackberry lady, then left."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Home."

"Damn. I guess it would've been asking too much for him to wait for me."

"Entirely," Lestrade agreed easily.

John shook his head. "Why are you here?"

"Figured I should at least try to get a victim's statement before it's taken out of my hands."

"So what did he say?"

"Nothing yet. I haven't spoken to him."

"Dr. Watson?"

Both men startled. Neither had heard Anthea come up behind them.

"Mr. Holmes will see you now."

Lestrade asked, "And what about me, miss?"

She didn't look up from her mobile screen when she said, "He'll be with you presently."

John shrugged apologetically, but Lestrade waved it off. "Go ahead. I get paid either way."

Giving a grateful nod, John pushed the door open and peeked inside. Mycroft looked to be sleeping, and John wondered if he should just back out. If he was being honest with himself, Sherlock's brother made him a touch nervous. He wouldn't categorize it as fear…more like healthy unease.

Before he could make his escape, Mycroft turned his head and pinned him with his eyes. "Do come in, Doctor; lurking is so very rude."

Chagrinned, John walked the rest of the way into the room and stood by the foot of the bed. Mycroft looked better than when he'd last seen him, but that wasn't saying much. It's not as though John would ever describe him as "fragile"…however, he wasn't quite the imposing figure he normally cut. He was still far too pale, but being awake and aware was a very good sign.

"You're looking…well," John said after a moment. 

"Don't ever take up politics—you are a terrible liar. But it is thoughtful of you to come and check on me." Mycroft shifted in the bed; pain flashed across his face at the movement. "I wish to thank you for keeping me alive long enough to get to hospital."

"You're welcome," John said. "I would say 'anytime,' but I'm very much hoping that it will never happen again."

"Well, they say hope springs eternal," Mycroft said, his expression amused, possibly at the thought of such optimism.

"Perhaps you should start wearing a bulletproof vest."

"Nonsense. It would ruin the line of my suit."

John would've laughed, but he was fairly certain Mycroft was being serious. 

"And where is that impulsive brother of mine?" 

"He came to see you," John offered awkwardly.

Mycroft blinked, before his features softened ever so slightly. "Good heavens, he must've thought I was dying to actually contemplate a bedside visit."

"Yes, well, there was a spectacular amount of blood," John murmured. "He's, uh, he's back at the flat. I'm headed there myself."

Mycroft chuckled, then winced. "My dear Doctor, I guarantee he is not at your residence, but rather running about the city searching for whomever had the temerity to shoot me. We Holmeses take a dim view of such things as attempted assassinations." 

Maybe John had hit his head when that taxi had knocked him down. Of course Sherlock wouldn't be patiently waiting for John to join him on the hunt. "Would you please excuse me, Mycroft?"

"Of course." Mycroft smiled. "Good luck."

"I'll try to stop back tomorrow."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Why don't you tell the detective inspector to come in on your way out. I might as well have that little chat with him now."

John nodded. He stepped from the room, relayed the message, and hurried outside. Hailing a cab, John directed it toward Baker Street, then got out his phone and sent a rather pointed text.

*****

The phone in his pocket buzzed, but Sherlock ignored it. It would be John. Nothing for it now. Best to finish the job and save the scolding for later. 

Sherlock was sitting outside a closed coffee shop across the street from the residence of Miss Monica Jones, current love interest of Leonard Mercadonte. There weren't many places Lenny could go when he was in trouble; statistically, this was the most likely. Sherlock didn't mind waiting hours if he was certain of the outcome, but on this occasion, he had been forced to play the odds. In the unlikely event Sherlock was wrong, it was time wasted where he not only failed to determine who'd hired Lenny to kill Mycroft, but left his brother open for another attempt.

Sherlock paused for a long moment before dismissing the concern with a shake of his head. Mycroft's minions would have his brother locked up tight—right now only the Queen herself would be safer in London than Mycroft Holmes. It was Sherlock's self-appointed job to ensure he remained as such.

Thirty agonizing minutes later, Sherlock had his opportunity. 

Across the way, he saw Lenny sidle along the bricked wall of his girlfriend's building and punch the call button for 5F. There would be no response. Sherlock had convinced Miss Jones to take an extended holiday…for her own good.

Sherlock put his hand in his pocket and gripped John's pistol to focus himself. He stepped from the shadows and approached his prey. Lenny, having decided Monica wouldn't be letting him in, made to leave when Sherlock closed the distance between him. 

"You and I have business."

Lenny whirled with the startled expression of a skittish rabbit preparing to bolt.

Sherlock pulled the gun out just far enough to alert Lenny to its presence. "I would prefer you didn't run. I am in no mood to chase you, and it causes such trouble when I have to shoot people."

Lenny slumped, defeated. "Mr. Holmes, I—" 

"Why don't we take this somewhere less…public."

Even in the low overhead light of the building's vestibule, Sherlock saw Lenny pale. Perhaps Sherlock's expression was showing more than he'd intended. Before Lenny could run, Sherlock yanked him around the corner and slammed him into the alley wall. 

"Earlier tonight, you broke into a second floor flat on Baker Street and used the higher vantage point to shoot someone across the way," Sherlock reported. "You then made your way by Tube to Canary Wharf for your regular shift at the fish market, hoping no one would notice the six separate indicators of your presence you carelessly left at the flat."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes. But I didn't break into the flat; I was giv'n a key." Lenny's words tripped out through trembling lips.

"Inconsequential," Sherlock said. He leaned closer and snarled, "You shot the wrong man." Mycroft could be insufferable at times, but Sherlock would never see him hurt.

"Yeah, I know. But the bloke said he'd take care of it." 

That…was not the reaction Sherlock had expected. "What?"

"Since I hit the wrong target, he'd get someone else to do the job."

Now the picture became clearer, and Sherlock was appalled. His brain flew through the permutations. Only three people were in residence at the time of the incident, Mrs. Hudson being at her sister's in Devon. Mycroft was no longer a factor, so they were down to two. Sherlock had stood in front of the window no less than three times during Mycroft's visit, even setting aside the fact that Lenny showed no surprise at seeing Sherlock, just resignation. 

There was only one person who could have been the target: John. He had passed Mycroft just prior to the shot. 

"Who hired you to kill John Watson?" Sherlock demanded, tightening his grip on Lenny's shirt.

"I never met 'im, I swear! He called me, then I received an envelope with everythin' inside." Lenny was nearly crying.

Sherlock had wasted enough time on this dead end. He slammed Lenny into the bricks and jammed the gun into his temple. "You will go straight to Scotland Yard and tell them exactly what you've told me. If you do, you'll be rewarded. Run…and I will hunt you down and take you apart piece by piece."

Lenny nodded rapidly, his head bouncing madly, eyes wide.

Giving him a final glare, Sherlock shoved the gun into his pocket and hurried to the nearest thoroughfare. He stood and looked either way, desperately searching for a taxi. Nothing. Picturing the area in his head, Sherlock started running toward the nearest place there should be gathered cabs, even at this late hour. He took out his phone and called John's mobile. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Damn! He dialed again, just to be sure. This time it went directly to voicemail.

Sherlock spotted a taxi up ahead and pushed himself faster. He jumped in and shouted the address, tossing a large amount of cash at the driver. "If we get there within the next seven minutes, that will be doubled."

As the taxi surged forward, Sherlock dialed Lestrade.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade sounded wary. Not surprising, considering the last time Sherlock had called him it was to report his brother had been shot. 

"Mycroft wasn't the target. Someone's after John."

Lestrade, bless him, didn't ask for anything more. "We'll meet you at Baker Street."

Sherlock ended the call and dialed John again. Again, it went to voicemail. Mrs. Hudson would be gone until next week, so she would be able to offer no assistance. He was thrown to the side as the cab made a particularly vicious right. It seemed the driver was determined to collect his bonus.

They pulled up to 221B at six minutes, seventeen seconds.

Sherlock threw the rest of his money at the driver and hurried to the door of his flat. A moment's inspection showed it had been expertly picked, and the handle turned easily. Certain, at this point, the element of surprise would do him no good, he called to John as he raced up the steps. There was no answer, and as soon as Sherlock reached the flat he saw why. The furniture was overturned, his "piles" and experiments had been tossed about—there had been an altercation.

Sherlock moved farther into the flat, looking for any sign of John, but the first person he ran across was unknown to him.

In the hallway lay a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties, well-built, and who currently had a kitchen knife sticking out of his side; given the color of bile mixed with blood, it was most likely through his liver. Not far from his outstretched hand was a gun. From the aroma of cordite, it had recently been fired, at least once. The man was clearly past help, not that Sherlock cared—anyone who messed with John Watson deserved what they got.

Sherlock walked around the body, leaving it for Lestrade's men, and moved down the hall. Something in his chest tightened when he spotted a trail of blood…a trail that led up the stairs to John's room.

"John?"

Sherlock took the steps three at a time, and burst through the door of the bedroom. His friend was crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed. Sherlock rushed to his side and dropped to his knees. He saw immediately that John had come upstairs to bind his wounds—blood-stained bandages swathed his chest and leg.

"John," Sherlock said, ghosting his hand over his friend's shoulder. He was too pale. Sherlock could see where John's hands had fumbled on the bandaging, leaving red smears. Sherlock called his name, but John did not stir. From below, Sherlock heard the police's arrival and yelled, "Up here!"

Within minutes, Sherlock had been pushed aside as the medical personnel worked to save John's life. Lestrade stood by his side, waiting for Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn't seem to get his mouth working. No data connected. No theories to share. All he could do was stare at John and remind himself that the white-faced, seemingly bloodless man was still alive. For now.

It wasn't like earlier with his brother. For one, John had instantly been on point, tending to Mycroft's wounds, completely unflappable. Most importantly, Mycroft had been conscious and irritating. John was simply lying there, silent and unmoving.

The medics were talking back and forth, discussing the best methods of ensuring their patient's survival. Sherlock consciously tuned them out, knowing all too well the odds against John's continuing existence with those wounds. He couldn't accept anything less than a complete recovery, so for once, Sherlock ignored the arithmetic. 

It took some maneuvering to get John strapped onto a backboard and down the tight staircase, but they were professionals and used to dealing with less than ideal situations. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off John until the door closed behind him, and he was left with Lestrade and his people in the flat. 

Anderson was taking pictures of the corpse in the hallway. Of John's smashed mobile. Of the bullet holes, and the bloody handprints along the banister. Sherlock brushed past him and bent over the body, avoiding the blood pool, and started to look for distinguishing characteristics. Lestrade took the billfold the ME handed over. "There's no ID, no cards, and just over £40 in cash."

Sherlock sniffed. "Obviously from out of town, Swindon most likely. Here to take care of John, then disappear." 

Lestrade confirmed his initial conclusion that the man had been stabbed in the liver. "He bled out fast; probably what saved John's life."

From the placement of the body and John's wound pattern, Sherlock surmised after the preliminary fight, in which John had held his own, the assassin—having lost the element of surprise—had gone for his gun, getting off the first shot as John ran for the kitchen. Most likely shot in the chest, John would've known he had little time before he was taken out of action, so he had to strike hard and fast. And the only weapon available, since Sherlock had taken his gun, was the Wusthof chef's knife.

Sherlock stood, walking into the kitchen while picturing the full event in his head. John would've stood to the side of the door and sprung at the intruder as he entered, grappling for the gun. That would be when he was shot in the leg. John was left with no choice but to hit his attacker where he would do the most damage. Since John's phone had been smashed in the initial confrontation, and the only landline in the flat was locked downstairs at Mrs. Hudson's, he would need to tend to his wounds and hope he could get to her flat before passing out.

Sherlock had reached these conclusions silently, unconcerned as to whether Lestrade was able to see the story. Every piece of the puzzle was an indictment—Sherlock had leapt to the wrong assumption and left John defenseless. Sherlock wasn't used to failure, and he didn't much care for it, especially twice in one day. First his brother, then John. All because Sherlock had failed to realize what was so very evident. The taste was bitter in his mouth. The only thing Sherlock could do to make it up to his friend would be to find whoever was behind it all. Except now he would stop them by whatever means necessary. 

Lestrade was waiting for him to share the information he'd deduced. Sherlock straightened and calmly said, "I assume you'll want to check the traffic cameras for our attacker. I would concentrate on the areas near the incoming western trains."

Lestrade nodded and left to make the phone call.

Sherlock smiled grimly to himself. There was no way the assassin was anything other than a Londoner, born and bred, and Sherlock would be the one to track him down. Regretfully, he'd had to hand Lenny over to the Met; this one would be his.

When Lestrade came back into the room, Sherlock said, "I'll leave you to it; I'm going to hospital."

"Let me know if there's anything I can do," Lestrade said.

"Oh," Sherlock said as if he'd forgotten, "I directed Mycroft's shooter to Scotland Yard. He should be there right now telling them everything he knows. If you wouldn't mind texting me the pertinent details, that would be excellent."

Lestrade's mouth dropped slightly as he pointed at the body in the hall. "That's not the guy?"

"No, that man was hired after the first one failed."

"Huh."

"Well said." Sherlock buttoned his coat and fixed his scarf. He went to a drawer and removed an envelope. "If you'll excuse me…." He left before Lestrade could ask anything else. His first stop would be Marie.

A taxi took him close to Marie's favorite tunnel, and he legged it the rest of the way. Luck was with him, and she was there, stashing away her latest finds. "I need help." He showed her the picture of the body he'd taken with his phone. "He's from Croydon." Sherlock pulled a fifty pound note from the envelope and handed it to her. "The sooner, the better."

She slipped the bill into her raggedy coat and walked away. 

Sherlock caught another cab, hoping the homeless network would come through with what he needed. The sun was just cresting the buildings as the cab pulled up in front of a burnt out shop. He paid the driver and stepped out, surveying the area. He knew he couldn't go door-to-door, asking if anyone knew the dead man's identity. They guarded their own, and Sherlock was clearly an outsider. But he might be able to find some answers by taking a circuitous path.

He spotted a bakery just opening for the morning. He ruffled his hair and slapped his cheeks to redden them. Walking across the square, he pushed open the door and entered the shop. Behind the counter was an elderly woman, slightly overweight, with deep laugh lines creasing her face. Perfect. Sherlock clasped his hands together and started rubbing them viciously. He walked up to the counter and asked, "Pardon, do you have any coffee yet?"

She looked up, the welcoming smile on her face quickly turning to concern. "Oh, dearest, you look absolutely frozen!"

"Yeah, well…." Sherlock ducked his head, feigning embarrassment. "I was s'posed to stay at me mate's place last night but he never showed. Stuck all night on his landin'."

"Come over here; I'll fix you right up."

Sherlock let her hustle him to a small table in the corner. She hurriedly got him fresh coffee and a warm scone. Sherlock forced himself to gobble it down in order to stay in character. His stomach rebelled, but he pushed it aside. "Thank you," he said with a wide grin after he finished.

She returned it, adding a maternal sigh. 

"That were delicious; exactly what I needed." Sherlock allowed his smile to dim and cleared his throat. "But I'm worried about my friend. He never showed and ain't answerin' his mobile."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her forehead crease into a frown.

"Maybe you've seen 'im around?" Sherlock showed her a carefully edited photo of John's attacker—one that made it look like he was sleeping, not deceased.

She squinted at the screen, ducking in close to view it. After a few moments, she stepped back and patted Sherlock's arm. "Oh, yes, I've seen him around, but not for a few weeks. Sorry, love." She paused. "I hate to say anything, but you might want to let him be."

Sherlock, intrigued, asked, "Why is that?"

She shrugged and took another step back. "It's just that…." With a look, she took in his clothing and appearance. "You seem like a nice man."

"I try to be," Sherlock said, semi-truthfully.

"It's just that he's been hanging out with the group on Hamilton Avenue, using drugs, nicking stereos. Not the kind of people you want to be friends with, if you catch my meaning." 

Sherlock put on his "shocked face." "Oh my God, I had no idea. Seemed a decent bloke."

"Well, I'm not one to cast aspersions, but just you be careful."

"No, I'm glad you told me." Sherlock waited a beat, then, "Anything else I should know?" It wasn't as though he could ask if she knew the man's name and still keep his act going, but he hoped she would let something slip. 

"Can't say I can think of anything," she replied, shaking her head. "You go on home and forget him. He's not worth the headache."

The bell over the door chimed as another customer arrived. Sherlock used the old woman's distraction as a chance to escape. He hurried out the door and shook his head to clear it. Acting like an ordinary person always took it out of him. 

Sherlock turned left, heading toward Hamilton. He'd gone about three steps when his mobile beeped. He stopped, hand hovering over the pocket where it resided, not sure if he wanted to read the incoming text. He realized he'd been subconsciously hanging onto the old adage "no news is good news." But Sherlock had never considered himself a coward, and wasn't going to allow it now. He pulled out the phone and looked down. 

_John in surgery. Holding his own. –Mycroft_

Something loosened in Sherlock's chest. John was still alive. And his brother was apparently well enough to run his network despite being hooked up to intravenous fluids and a morphine drip. Sherlock nodded to himself, let out a breath, and continued on his way.

Derelict was an apt description of the neighborhood. Sherlock could imagine it had spawned quite a few nefarious types over the years. But he wasn't certain which direction to take, exactly, and was afraid he'd draw the wrong attention, dressed as well as he was. He wished he'd thought to wear one of his alternate outfits. He was considering his options when a soft voice called his name.

"Mr. Holmes."

He turned. A diminutive young man placed a piece of paper in his hand and was gone.

Sherlock opened it to find a name and an address. Apparently, the dead man had been David Horne, and he'd lived nearby. Sherlock didn't waste a moment getting there. The building where Horne used to live was a half-step more upscale than the previous area, but that might be considered damning with faint praise. Even though it was still early, Sherlock felt no compunction against ringing the bell. Repeatedly.

A female voice came over the speaker. "Yes, what do you want?"

"I need to speak with David."

"He's not here at the moment."

"I really need to speak with him." Sherlock paused. "It's about a job."

"I told you before, he's not interested. Leave us alone!" The speaker clicked as it was disconnected. 

Intriguing.

Sherlock pushed the call bells of the other residents, ignoring the angry curses and the questioning ones. Finally, someone blindly buzzed him in. He jogged up the stairs and rapped on the door to the Hornes' flat. He heard shuffling on the other side of the door, but no movement to open it. He waited a few seconds, then knocked again, louder. 

"Who is it?"

"I need to speak with you, Mrs. Horne."

"I already told you, he's not interested."

"And I am not who you think I am," Sherlock responded. 

Another shuffle. "What does that mean?"

"If you'll open the door, I'll explain. I do not enjoy shouting my business through keyholes."

There was nothing for about thirty seconds. Then, the lock was disengaged, and the door swung open.

A mousy woman peered from behind the slightly opened door, a scowl etched on her face. However, Sherlock could see the fear behind the mask of anger. "What's it then?" she asked. "He owe you money?"

"Mrs. Horne, my name is Sherlock Holmes—" No reaction: either she didn't know the job or only knew John's name. "—and your husband did take that job you warned him against."

"How—?" 

"The reasons behind his decision are unimportant," Sherlock continued. "I merely wish to know who hired him."

"He's been trouble since the day I married him." Mrs. Horne shook her head. "I had nothing to do with it."

"This I know already. But you will tell me how your husband was contacted, and how the person who hired him knew he was available." While he was talking, Sherlock used his height advantage to slowly walk her backward into the flat. He stood, arms crossed, and glared down at her.

She seemed less than impressed. Shaking her head, she closed the door and walked to a biscuit tin on the counter, pulling a mobile from within. "The man said he knew we needed money." She shrugged helplessly. "We're about to get evicted. He called and said he had an opportunity for David, a chance to get above water. He offered five thousand pounds." She handed the phone to him. "I told David it wasn't worth it."

"He should have listened to you," Sherlock said absently as he scrolled through the call history.

"Where is my husband?" Her voice was resigned, as if she already knew the answer and merely sought confirmation. 

"I'm certain the police will be here shortly to tell you where you can collect his corpse," Sherlock told her bluntly before retreating. He closed the door behind himself as she started to cry. 

He hailed a cab back to the flat—he required a laptop, and the police should have cleared the scene by now. Sherlock concentrated on the incoming calls to Horne's phone. There were three that intrigued him, and he needed to figure out to whom they belonged.

A few minutes from home, his own mobile beeped. His grip on it tightened for a second before he flipped it around.

_Lenny spilling his guts. Not much to tell. Hired by voice on the phone. Can't recall #. –Lestrade  
_  
Sherlock fired back, _Does he still have phone? –SH_

_Threw into Thames_ , came almost immediately. 

Sherlock wondered if Lestrade had held that information back in order to get a response from him. He was confident Lenny was telling the truth. Not only did he fear Sherlock's retribution, but he used what little brain cells he had to pack fish and commit crimes—though never as the planner. No, someone else had come up with the strategy along with the target. 

He just needed to find out who.

The taxi stopped in front of Baker Street. Sherlock paid and hurried inside. He flung his coat onto the chair, sat down at the desk, and logged onto the laptop… _John's_ laptop. Sherlock shook his head, dismissing the irrelevant, and settled in.

If neither of the men had gone looking for the work, that meant someone had found a way to search them out. Lenny was pretty well known in criminal circles, but Horne? He was too new. Plus, the person knew Horne needed the money. The attack on John showed it was barely planned, impatient and desperate—last minute after the first, carefully planned attempt failed.

One at a time, Sherlock entered the phone numbers that had been received by Horne's mobile. The first two were useless, leading him to associated miscreants.

The third though…

The third belonged to the main switchboard of a local bank branch. He needed to verify Horne had an account there. Showing up in person would be too time consuming to gain access to what he needed. Sherlock now regretted the brusque manner he'd used with Mrs. Horne. He sighed. He could really use John for this. John always seemed to be able to comfort the witnesses and victims…something Sherlock normally considered useless.

Asking the new widow was off the table, and Sherlock didn't want to waste time traveling across town to break into their flat and search it—especially if she was still in there crying. He would have to once again rely on his own exquisite memory. 

He stretched out on the sofa, steepled his fingers under his chin, and closed his eyes. He retraced his steps, from entering the Hornes' home until his retreat, piece by piece, section by section. He recalled the dirty dishes in the sink, just visible from the entryway, a pile of clothes—cleaned and folded, an ashtray full of butts, a fresh bunch of inexpensive flowers, and a stack of mail on the coffee table. 

Sherlock zeroed in on the post, mostly bills, overdue and demanding reimbursement. He mentally flipped through the pile, recalling an envelope sticking out from the middle: the return address being the bank in question. Brilliant.

Verification of his hypothesis prompted Sherlock to jerk upright, hands snatching the laptop and pulling it close. It took him less time than it should to break into the bank's personnel files. He scanned the list, hoping a name would leap out at him, but none did. He went through the names one at a time and dismissed certain ones outright—they would have no access to others' accounts, no ability to know who was desperate for funds. Sherlock's final list had just over a dozen names, and he started his research.

It was the fifth name down—Norman Douglas—where he struck gold. Douglas was in charge of new accounts. He also happened to be fighting a charge of domestic abuse by his wife. 

Sherlock thought about calling Lestrade for particulars, but dismissed it instantly. He didn't want any interference now he was closing in on the truth of who had ordered John Watson's shooting. It took him a few extra minutes, but Sherlock was able to finagle his way into the Yard's database. 

Mrs. Andrea Douglas, married eight years, claimed her husband had started beating her within her first year of marriage. She had no living family for support, and he'd cut her off from her friends just after their wedding. She had taken the abuse until one day she'd had to go to surgery to cast her broken wrist. A doctor had recognized the signs and talked her into pressing charges. 

The doctor had been John Watson, consummate do-gooder. 

Being the sort of man who would beat his wife, Douglas would not look kindly on his power being usurped. Nor would he appreciate the bad publicity the charge would create at his work. One death would solve both problems. John wouldn't be able to testify about Mrs. Douglas' injuries, and she would be too terrified to go against him again. Could Sherlock prove it? Most certainly. Given time, he would be able to hand the Yard a detailed case of his every misdeed. But he didn't think Norman Douglas deserved that consideration. He had existed on this planet long enough.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He eyed it speculatively, then picked it up. 

_Dr. Watson out of surgery. Eighty-three percent chance of complete recovery. He could use a friendly face when he awakens. –Mycroft  
_  
Sherlock snarled. What John needed was to be avenged.

He collected his coat and moved to where he'd hidden John's pistol before the police had arrived. The gun felt heavier, somehow, as if it knew what he was planning. Ridiculous.

Sherlock tucked the gun inside his coat, double-checked Douglas' home address. Most likely the banker would leave fairly late, assuming he was important enough people would wait for him. If he wasn't there, Sherlock would go to the bank itself. He was down the stairs, out the door, and hailing a cab within the minute. His fingers beat a staccato rhythm against his leg until he realized what he was doing and stilled them, clenching his fist tight. He forced himself to watch out the window, counting down the streets in his head as he neared his destination. 

The taxi stopped in front of a well-kept townhouse. Sherlock took his time paying and slowly got out of the car. It drove away as he walked up the front steps. Sherlock pushed the doorbell, listening to the muffled chimes echo through the house. 

Footsteps approached, and Sherlock tensed. The door opened, and there stood Norman Douglas in an off-the-rack suit and tie, ready to leave for work. Shorter in stature, he barely reached Sherlock's shoulder. Perhaps that increased his feelings of inadequacy, leading to the brutality in his marriage. Not an excuse, just another piece of the puzzle. John might've been shorter than average, but he remained one of the best representations of humanity that Sherlock had ever known. Until this man tried to kill him.

That reminded Sherlock of his mission, and he steeled his resolve.

"May I help you?" Douglas asked, wary.

Sherlock plastered a wide smile on his face. "Actually, I'm here to help you."

"I don't think so." Douglas tried to close the door, but Sherlock stopped it with a foot.

"I think you'll want to listen to my offer. Or perhaps I should go to the police," he mused. "They seem to frown on murder."

"What?!" Douglas tried for outrage, but it came across panicked. "What are you talking about?"

"I'd be happy to tell you all about it. But don't you think it would be better in private? Domestic issues should so rarely be aired outside." Sherlock raised a brow at Douglas' neighbor heading to his car.

Douglas waffled for a long moment, before he stepped back and let Sherlock enter. He closed the door and took a defensive stance. "So what are you on about?" he demanded.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, I happen to know you have a problem that just won't go away."

Shaking his head, Douglas said, "I don't know what you mean."

"My friend David said you’d promised him some money. I mean to collect."

"And what do you know about this…problem?"

"Well, I know you just sent my mate to his death."

Douglas blanched. "Death?"

"Yes, didn't you know? Apparently, this Watson fellow is tougher than you'd led David to believe. Used to be a soldier and harder to kill than you'd think."

"Let's say I know what you're talking about," Douglas hedged. "What can you do about it?"

"I happen to know someone at hospital who, for a price, is willing to let me slip into restricted areas. Watson is lying wounded and defenseless…" Sherlock coughed to cover his voice unexpectedly cracking. "…and he'll be easy pickings." 

"And in return?" Douglas prompted.

"Ten thousand pounds."

Douglas barked a laugh. "That's insane."

"Really?" Sherlock stretched his voice into a drawl. "Two people you hired have tried and failed. At some point, it's going to get noticed. Do you want the job done or not?"

Douglas stood, thinking. 

Sherlock could see him weighing the pros and cons, whether the risk would be worth it. He saw the exact moment the decision was made.

"If you can do what you say you can," Douglas said, "I'll get you the money."

Sherlock nodded. "You have a deal." He reached into his coat and curled his hand around the grip of John's pistol, ready to insure there would be no more bedside vigils or worse, as his mind had whispered all morning, so much worse if only a centimeter to the right. Before he could pull it out and deliver justice, the front door was shattered as a platoon of policemen stormed inside, yelling and shouting.

Sherlock froze, quite surprised—an unusual occurrence. He slowly removed his hand from the gun and brought it out empty. 

"What's going on here?" Douglas demanded, hands held high.

Lestrade strolled through the open door, flashed his badge, and walked up to Douglas. "Norman Douglas, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Mycroft Holmes, the attempted murder of John Watson, solicitation of murder, as well as accessory to the death of David Horne."

As the list was recited, Douglas' face became more and more ashen. 

Lestrade signaled for him to be taken into custody, Douglas protesting his innocence as the officers led him away. Turning, Lestrade walked to where Sherlock stood. "Thank you so much for your assistance in this investigation," Lestrade said in a measured tone. 

Sherlock had finally managed to find his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"I would think that would be _obvious_ ," Lestrade said. "I'm arresting a suspect."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "My brother sent you, didn't he?"

Lestrade blinked. "Who?"

"The man you spent half the night chatting with," Sherlock snarled. "How did you know when to come in?" He hated asking, but he hated not knowing more.

"We had some parabolic microphones set up in a van outside." Lestrade paused. "After you got such a great confession out of him, we figured the least we could do would be to finish the task for you." He pointedly glanced at the bulge under Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock's lips thinned. "Good job, Detective Inspector. I'm so…glad you got your man."

Lestrade smiled. "I'm sure you are. Now how about you get out of my crime scene and go see John and your brother at hospital."

Refusing to answer, Sherlock merely walked past him and out of the house. As soon as he cleared the door, he whipped out his mobile to send Mycroft a text. _I'll not have you interfering._

He got a reply within moments: _And I'll not have you in prison for murder._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he would've let them catch him. He thrust his phone into his pocket, feeling the weight of John's gun opposite. He paused, wondering whether he should drop it off at the flat before he went to hospital. No, it would be fine; he would just keep it hidden. Mycroft's security detail were hardly likely to remove it.

Sherlock stood at the curb, policemen walking back and forth on either side of him, and realized he had no ride. Picturing a map in his head, he started walking toward the nearest Tube station.

***

Sherlock paused inside the hospital doors, not sure where he should go. He supposed he was duty-bound to see family first. But John had been hurt worse than Mycroft…

His phone buzzed.

_Stop driving yourself mad, and check on Dr. Watson. Room 422. –Mycroft  
_  
Sherlock cursed Mycroft under his breath. His knee-jerk reaction was to do the exact opposite of what he'd been instructed, but seeing as it was exactly what he wanted to do…damn him. 

He took the stairs to the fourth floor, not wanting to chance being stuck in the lift with any sick people. Dead people were lovely; sick ones were intolerable.

Sherlock found John's room easily, but hesitated outside. He hadn't been there. Hadn't been of any use. What if John didn't want to see him? Sherlock had allowed him to get hurt. Not only did he leave him alone, chasing after the wrong target, but he'd taken John's weapon away as well. It was only because of John's defensive skills and ingenuity that he was still alive. If it had been left to Sherlock, Douglas would've succeeded in his mission.

"Are you going to stand out there all day, or are you actually going to come inside?"

John's voice startled Sherlock from his thoughts. He peered around the doorframe. 

John looked awful. If it was possible, he was even paler than when he'd been bleeding out in their flat. 

"I thought they were supposed to fix you," leapt from Sherlock's mouth before he could stop himself. He realized that probably wasn't the best thing to say, but John merely chuckled weakly. 

"Are you done mucking about? How 'bout you sit down for two minutes and tell me what I missed."

Sherlock's whole body seemed to un-tense, and he walked on less than steady legs to John's side, grateful for the chair he dropped into. 

"Are you all right?" John asked with a rasp.

"I wasn't the one who was shot," Sherlock replied haughtily. 

"No, you weren't," John easily agreed, "but sometimes that's harder."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the claim if not necessarily agreeing with it.

John seemed content with his reaction, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes, allowing Sherlock to study him. To see past the heavy layers of bandages, the grey skin, the numerous IV and monitoring lines. What he observed was distressing yet reassuring. 

The room was quiet for a few minutes. The steady beep of the monitors relaxed Sherlock further. It was concrete evidence that not only was John alive, but he was doing well. He'd be happy to listen to them for a few hours without complaint. 

But John was determined to get the full story. "How is Mycroft doing?"

Sherlock sighed. "My brother is annoyingly well."

John smiled. "So you've been to see him?"

"Not yet," Sherlock admitted, shifting in his seat. He didn't bother looking at the glare sent his way, he could feel it.

"Sherlock…"

"He's more than fine," Sherlock protested. "He's been texting me for hours."

"That doesn't mean he wouldn't like to see you."

"I'm sure his spies are taking care of that."

"Sherlock…"

"Oh, all right," Sherlock snapped. "I'll go see him once I'm done here. Satisfied?"

Shaking his head against the pillow, John said, "Not yet."

"Good heavens, what now?" Sherlock knew he was being irrational but couldn't stop himself. Too much had gone on in the past day and a half—was that all it had been?—and he felt his very sanity was on the brink of collapse.

But John merely smiled placidly. "You never told me who tried to kill us."

Oh, right. That was something Sherlock could do. "Actually, you had two different assassins…." He gave John the pertinent information, continuing the tale long after his friend had drifted off to sleep.

Eventually, someone came in to check on John. Sherlock moved aside, but stayed close and paid attention to what was said and done. He would need to help John once he was released and needed to know his limits. Injured was different from sick; he could deal with injured.

Sherlock checked his watch and scowled. He might as well get it over with. He slowly made his way to Mycroft's room. Sherlock hadn't actually entered it last time he'd been here, merely wandered the perimeter, taking in every aspect of his brother's unconscious form amongst the buzz of medical personnel. Mycroft was fine, no need to make an event out of it. But Sherlock had promised John.

Sherlock didn't pause as he approached the two suited bodyguards. Apparently they recognized him, because neither moved to stop his passing. There went his last hope. Mycroft's assistant didn't look up from her Blackberry as he entered the room. She merely stood and walked out, leaving Sherlock alone with his brother.

Mycroft was hiding behind a newspaper—probably reading about the latest coup he'd instigated. Sherlock sat down in the chair farthest from the bed.

And waited.

The room was quiet except for the turning of pages. Sherlock busied himself on his phone, checking his website—nothing of interest—and texting Lestrade.

"Leave the poor man alone, Sherlock," Mycroft said from behind page six. "He's doing the best he can."

"It's none of your business who I communicate with."

"You should know by now that everything is my business."

Sherlock sniffed, refusing to be baited. He put his phone away and directed his full attention to the figure in the bed. Now that he was looking for it, he could see the minute trembling in the hands holding the paper, as if even this was too much for them to lift.

"I appreciate the visit, Sherlock, but I'm sure Dr. Watson could use the company more than I."

Mycroft was dismissing him. Interesting. Especially given the newspaper was acting as a shield, and Sherlock had yet to see Mycroft's face. No, he wasn't leaving quite yet.

"John asked me to leave so he could rest. Said something about being 'creeped out by the staring.' I'm not certain what he meant."

Mycroft chuckled, but still did not make an appearance.

Very interesting.

Sherlock had never been the most patient person, or anywhere near the top ten, but he was going to outlast Mycroft. Patient? No. Stubborn? He had that in spades.

"I'm astonished it's taking you so long to finish," Sherlock said, "considering you surpassed me at speed-reading."

With a resigned sigh from his brother, the newspaper was folded and put aside. Triumph.

"I was merely making sure I didn't miss anything of import," Mycroft said loftily, folding his hands and placing them in his lap.

Sherlock stared.

John's appearance had surprised him, but Mycroft's seemed to shake Sherlock to his very foundations. His brother looked…weak. Even when he'd been a child, even when he was so angry that he refused to speak with him, Sherlock could count on Mycroft being robust—to the extreme, at times. This man in front of him couldn't be Mycroft Holmes.

As if he could read what Sherlock was thinking, Mycroft lifted his chin, in defiance of what his body was saying. "If you are in the sharing mood," he said, "why don't you explain the reason behind the weapon you are trying to conceal under your clothes."

Knowing exactly what his brother was doing, Sherlock allowed the change of subject. "I was merely prepared for every eventuality."

Mycroft hmphed. "There was only one outcome on your mind. Thank goodness the Yard managed to upset that plan."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, looking directly at his brother, "thank goodness."

Bowing his head, Mycroft looked away. 

If it were anyone else in the world, Sherlock would say he was blushing. But that was ridiculous; he must be flushed with fever, or some such affliction. "Well, I'd love to sit here and…not talk some more," Sherlock drawled, "but I need to go discuss John's treatment with his physician."

Mycroft looked relieved. "Yes, good idea. I'll be checking out in the morning and returning home to recuperate."

"Fine." Sherlock nodded. "Good."

Mycroft nodded. "Good."

Sherlock left before he could embarrass himself any further.

***

John shifted position, wincing when it sent a spike of pain across his chest. He sighed.

"Did you need something?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his laptop.

The detective had been like this since John had come home from hospital—overly solicitous. At first John had found it helpful, then amusing, but now it had gone past both of those into annoying and worrisome.

"No, Sherlock, I'm fine. Still working on the tea you made me already." John waved a hand over the four cups on the table beside him. They were all nearly full, since Sherlock didn't wait until he was finished with one before he prepared the next.

"Are you ready to eat? I made soup. To help you get your strength back."

"You…made soup?" Okay, now it was serious. John didn't really want to taste what Sherlock considered soup. What exactly did he make it out of? There was no way he was ingesting any of Sherlock's concoctions. John was, quite frankly, half-nervous about the tea. No telling what might've fallen in while it was brewing. Or what the cups had been used for previously.

So there was only one solution. The last thing either of them wanted to do was talk about what had happened, and yet…

"Sherlock, could you come in here for a moment?"

John hadn't even finished the request before Sherlock was in front of him, questioning expression on his face. 

"The soup's not quite done yet. Did you need more tea?" Sherlock responded with an immediacy he only gave to new cases involving serial killers.

John felt like a right bastard. "Would you mind sitting down?" he asked. "I'm getting a crick in my neck."

Sherlock sat down instantly. 

John sighed. He fiddled with the blanket over his legs. "I appreciate all you've been doing for me, but I think we could each use a break."

"You want me to leave," Sherlock said, devoid of emotion. 

His face was closed off, expressionless—something John hadn't seen for a long time. It made his chest hurt for an entirely different reason.

"No. Well, yes." John growled in frustration. "I just think that it'd be good for you to go out on a case. Maybe Lestrade has something for you."

Sherlock had thawed a little during John's explanation, but he still seemed wary. "What about you?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," John assured him. "I can get around well enough. And if there's an emergency, I can text you."

Sherlock eyed him up and down, taking in every detail. After a long moment, he nodded. "All right. I will see if the detective inspector needs any assistance."

"Thank you." John closed his eyes, satisfied.

"Before I go, I'll make you some tea."

John sighed.

Tea wasn't the only thing Sherlock brought. The tray also had biscuits…and a gun.

"What's that for?" John pointed at the weapon.

"I thought you might feel better with it close by," Sherlock responded casually. Too casually.

" _I_ might?"

"Doubtful you'll need it, with Douglas in custody, but just in case."

"Sherlock, I don't need the gun. There's no one after me."

"You never know," Sherlock shot back, agitated.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

"Sherlock, it wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was my fault," Sherlock snapped. "I was _wrong_. I let Mycroft get shot. And then I left you alone, took your pistol, and left you defenseless." 

John didn't mean to laugh, he really didn't. But, "Did it look like I was defenseless?" he asked. "Because I'm pretty damn certain the man who broke in here would tell you differently. If he was still able to talk, that is."

"Don't—"

"No, _you_ don't. I am perfectly capable of handling myself. If anyone made a mistake, it was me. I didn't tell you anything about what was happening. I underestimated Douglas." John's voice had risen, and his chest was heaving against the bandages.

Sherlock canted his head and blinked. "You're right. That was your mistake. You should have told me, so this could have been avoided." He stared at John's bandages as if they'd personally offended him. "It is incalculably harder to draw accurate conclusions if facts have been withheld. Please make certain it doesn't happen again."

John stared at Sherlock, shocked into silence. 

"And, in trade, next time I promise not to leave you behind," Sherlock added with a small smile. 

Laughing, John nodded. "Agreed."

"And I will never take your gun again," Sherlock said solemnly. 

"Oh, Lord, please don't promise that!"

"What? But—"

"You've stolen it no less than a dozen times before this. The majority of those times were important, and three saved my life. Besides, even if you hadn't taken the gun this time, I wouldn't have had a chance to retrieve and use it. I still would've had to make do."

Sherlock pondered a long moment. "I accept your scenario."

"Well, thank God for that." John smiled. "Plus, I think it might drive you even further over the edge if you weren't allowed to handle my possessions. The rules haven't worked with the laptop any."

Sherlock scoffed. He stood and walked across the room. "If I actually thought you meant it, I would listen."

"What?! Of course I mean it!" John yelled. "I don't want you messing around on my laptop, or wasting the milk, or searching my room for—"

"We'll have to continue this later, John," Sherlock said, looking at his phone, "Lestrade needs me." He snatched his coat from its hook and ran out of the flat.

John shook his head and smiled. Settling into the sofa, he picked up one of the teas and cautiously tasted it. Not bad. John was startled when his phone vibrated across the table. Picking it up, John saw it was a message from Sherlock: _Don't forget to text if you have a problem. –SH_

John smiled. Yes, it was good to know some things remained constant.


End file.
